Teaching the Steps
by wanderingxscribe
Summary: Modern AU where Bixlow is a dance instructor struggling to keep open the place he calls home and Freed is the son of a wealthy CEO expected to learn to dance to impress the daughter of a potential business partner. When sparks fly can they figure out how to navigate this together or will their own pasts crush them both? *Yaoi pairing*
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer: The plot is mine and the characters are borrowed in this work of fan-made fiction._

 _Author's note: My love of AU's spawned a desire to spin a Freelow-centric version of a dance instructor falling for the one he is teaching and vice-versa. Modern AU has no magic in this. Obvious M/M pairing. It changes between both Freed's and Bixlow's perspectives and will be labeled as such. Non-beta'd so all mistakes are mine. Comments and criticism definitely wanted._

 _Prologue_

"This is extremely important."

It wasn't usual for that to be the first thing he was told so he straightens and looks at the speaker. "So, what is so special 'bout this?"

"He's the son of a prominent CEO who needs some polishing up."

A snort escapes between his lips as he draws another layer of black nail polish on a nail. "Oh, so some rich boy needs to impress for his daddy? How...utterly borin'."

"Bixlow, a client like this only comes once in a lifetime. You've heard of the Justines?"

The figure pauses because it was true enough. That name was extremely familiar; man was a CEO of some bigwig firm and his wife was from just as much money. "Suppose I've heard a thing or two..."

"Well, it's their son you'll be teaching."

Bixlow sighs softly as he closes the nail polish and blows on his finger. "Suppose I would be stupid to let such a thing pass me by. Though don't know why they don't hire someone from their circle?"

"Apparently...he's either refused to go back or they cannot teach him. You are...as they stated; their final hope."

A low laugh escapes him before he remarks, "Yeah, I'd think so; some small dance studio in the middle of nowhere is bound to be anyone's last resort."

"Don't be snide. Besides, despite your...eccentricities you are still the best there is."

Ignoring what should have been a stroke to his ego, Bixlow blows on his nails. "Fine. Suppose I could use a good client to keep from havin' to worry 'bout bills. When do they need me to start?"

"Tonight."

A look of annoyance surfaces though he knew he shouldn't be so surprised considering people like the Justines would figure their money could do almost anything. "Peachy. Tonight it is...even though I know I'm gonna regret it."

"You're a peach."

Bixlow watches the other leave before huffing. Well, how wonderful was this? Scowling, his gaze lands on a few envelopes on the table and he sighs softly. There was no help for it; no matter how good a reputation he had there were still things against him and things that he needed to be able to do. So he'd have to deal with this and make sure the guy wowed whoever it was he needed to.

He crosses the room feeling edgy and unhappy. Reaching out, he presses a button and music would soon start allowing himself to lose himself to try and burn up some restlessness before he had to handle whoever it was being dropped on him.

 _*~*~*Freed*~*~*_

There was so much he wanted to say about things but he was pretty sure none of them would resound with his father when he was bound and determined to have his way. Which is what has him staring up at the worn building wondering if this was chosen as a punishment. Sighing and pushing aside his own doubts and heads up. He'd find himself stilling in the doorway blue eyes widening. The sight of the male moving across the floor has him stunned; short blue-black hair in a mess of spikes and startlingly red eyes clad in tight black pants and a purple shirt; this was definitely not the usual instructors he was used to. And the male was young; could not be that much older than Freed himself.

Finally, the music stops and the other turns to see him there. Something of his reaction has his lips curving upwards. "Not what ya were expectn', baby?"

Freed glowers. "My name is Freed and you are not to call me 'baby'."

"Well, aren't ya just an uptight thin'. If ya gonna learn the finer arts of dance ya gonna have to relax at some point, baby."

Freed grits his teeth as the other obviously was getting something from his annoyance. Shame that it was his father who was paying for this and not Freed because he was tempted to just turn around and walk back the way he came. Unfortunately, his inheritance was at stake if he did not gain his father's approval. "I would think there would be an elegance to dance."

"Oh, there is," comes the others bemused retort, "but it's not just about flashy outfits. Dancin' is an expression of passion done with one's body. It's akin sometimes to sex while still clothed; carnal, heat-inducin'."

"I do not believe those are the sorts of dances my father wants you to teach me," Freed states flatly unsure that he was ever going to warm up to the brazen male observing him, "And you look far too young to be the owner."

"I'm not," comes the response, "I'm just his best acquisition. I'm Bixlow. And for the next five weeks you are mine."

There was no way Freed was accepting that. He'd talk to his father immediately about choosing a less...bold instructor. Because there was something dangerous about the man in front of him. But for now, he'd have to make it through this lesson. "As you say," he finally remarks, "I'm Freed. You will acknowledge me as such and use no other nicknames you might find you like. I'm here to learn and not to amuse you."

 _*~*~*Bixlow*~*~*~*_

He was certainly a privileged, pompous brat. The moment he stepped in he had to command the place. Slender but wiry, the male was deceptively feminine with long green hair and thickly lashed blue eyes. Bixlow didn't doubt for a moment that he'd be dangerous if provoked. The body-type meant that he would make for an ideal partner if one could brave his whiny superiority long enough to want to that was. And he was having severe issues with not telling him to go tell his father where he could put his money.

He'd been honest with Freed; the one who owned the company, at least at the moment, wasn't him. It was something he was saving up for. This dance studio was his life and all he wanted to keep and he was running out of time to get it. Which meant he was going to have to put up with this cocky brat. "So," he remarks completely ignoring the demand for only his name to be used, "What have they managed to teach ya or do I need to start from the beginning?"

The scowl he receives amuses him highly as does the gritted, "I know enough classical dances. Thank you."

"Hmm, we'll have to see about that. C'mere so I can see how well you do know 'em. And I apologize that ya gonna need to follow my lead." The look of concealed fury has his lips curving upwards as he barely manages to contain some quip about this being his own damned fault in the first place. Of course it's definitely far more entertaining watching him strive to let Bixlow lead. "Don't seem so well-versed now do ya?"

"I'm not usually the woman!" comes the snapped retort.

"Ya gotta be flexible," he answers, "So just relax and trust me. I'm not gonna let ya fall."

"Forgive me if I don't," comes the biting retort.

Bixlow sighs before halting them both. "Look, I don't know why this is important to ya but apparently it is. So focus on that above how much ya can't stand me or ya surroundings. I'm gonna teach ya what ya need to know but it's up to ya to accept and learn from it."

"I'm not the one who follows!"

Bixlow gives him a caustic expression. "Yeah, I can tell 'cause ya damn near demand everythin' else while ya at it. Still stands that while ya here ya do it my way, baby."

Of course it ends with Freed storming out promising to have anyone else teach him and Bixlow wanting to throw something or scream. Or both. But then, as silence falls over the studio; perhaps it was for the best anyway. What did some street kid like him know anyway? Locking up and feeling infinitely older than he was, he heads for the local diner to eat and unwind as well as prepare for his phone to go off at any time.

At his usual table, he sits and goes over the lesson knowing that he could have made it easier on the younger male; he just hadn't wanted to. His attitude just rubbed his emotions raw. It still was unacceptable and he deserved getting replaced. But damn, the other had promise. He could move and if he'd relaxed and let go, let someone else lead him a bit; he'd be amazing. As he muses on the other, he wonders what he was into; fingers like his had to be playing an instrument of some kind. He could almost bet on it considering he came from old money.

It would be his phone that would snap him from his musing and he sighs seeing the number. Here it came. Slowly, he'd press the button before putting it to his hear. "'Lo?"

"Don't sass me, I don't have time for it! The hell were you thinking mouthing off to the guy? His father is only one of the richest men in the goddamn town!"

"To be fair, I didn't mouth off. I was honest," he retorts, "If that pampered sod cannot…"

"Watch your mouth, Bixlow."

He closes his eyes. "Freed Justine is a stubborn, prickly individual whose sole problem is that he cannot bend. Even a little. No one will be able to teach him a thing, guaranteed."

"You realize that if you lose this job, I am personally shutting down that building don't you? I've had it up to my ears with you!"

"Legally ya can't without a valid reason," Bixlow responds keeping his voice level, "I'm paid up for this month."

"I'll have the lights and water shut off."

"It's in my name." He'd been very careful about that knowing this man's tendencies to flip on a dime.

"I'll sell it to the first person who gives me my asking price in cash."

That was the problem right there. Bixlow couldn't yet afford it on his own and this asshole knew it. "Ya deplorable...but then I've told ya that over the years."

"Perhaps, but you're the one stupid enough to be attached to the building. You better hope that when his father calls back it's to say his son will be at your studio for your sake. Because if not then you're going to be getting evicted."

Bixlow hangs up the phone glaring at the device before deciding that he'd lost his appetite. Leaving, he finds himself glancing in the distance towards the studio. Losing that would take away the one place he'd ever felt safe at. He couldn't allow it. Making a choice, he heads in the opposite direction deciding that this was his mess and he'd damned well better clean it up on his own.

The pristine building was so lacking in any warmth that he's surprised the heating system isn't on. Trying to ignore the fact that the woman behind the desk he approaches thought extremely little of him, he says quietly, "May I please speak to Mr. Justine?"

"He is very busy right now. Do you have an appointment?"

"No, I just…"

"Then you would need to come back another time." The brusque interruption makes his shoulders tense.

"I'm his son's dance instructor and I need to speak with him," he retorts as calmly as he can.

"Mr. Justine should have made it quite clear that your services are…"

"Mr. Justine can tell me himself!" Bixlow snaps, "Now unless you want me to make an extremely undignified scene, I suggest you see if he has a few minutes to spare." Of course, he was sure that she'd end up calling security on him instead of who he was seeking but that was the gamble with this.

A moment later, he hears, "What is going on down here?"

"Mr. Justine, I will take care of it," she says immediately flashing an unkind look at Bixlow.

"I would like a word, sir, if you don't mind," Bixlow says ignoring the clear warning to keep quiet.

"And you are?"

"My name is Bixlow, sir. And It's about your son, Freed."

"You're the instructor?" The suited man seems startled by this fact as he takes him in. Bixlow isn't too surprised. Most were not expecting him.

"Yes, I am." Or he was until he'd been an idiot. Either way, he had to try and fix this before things went south in his universe.

"When he said that you were the last choice, I suppose I should have believed him…" the man muses taking his measure and like so many others selling him short. "And make no mistake, my son is not wanting to come anywhere near your...establishment. However, there is no time for alterations so I will honor the agreement. You had just best not make him come to me again."

"Yes, sir."

"Good. Now leave. I cannot have clientele thinking I'm running a shelter."

Ignoring the insult, he does as bade feeling far more steady. He still had the job and would not make the same mistake with the other male. Too much was at stake for him to do that. These rich-types were always easy to deal with; just cowtow and let them think that they were all high-and-mighty and they normally did as you wanted. At least that was Bixlow's opinion of the whole thing.

He heads back for the studio to the small apartment that he had there. The building itself was only three stories though the first floor wasn't used as more than storage as it had flooded enough times to warn that no good would come of using it. So the second floor held the studio and then a kitchen, bathroom, and his bedroom. It was kind of cramped but it was his, or would be if fate was kind.

Clothing is stripped off before his phone goes off. He picks it up. "'Lo?"

"You actually showed up at the man's job? I might have underestimated you."

"Ya know what this place means to me. I intend on keepin' it. It's what ya father intended."

"Yeah, well the old man isn't here is he?" Ivan's sneered tone is like a slap.

Bixlow squeezes his eyes shut. "Ya a waste of space, ya know that? I hope that ya get what ya deserve, Dreyar."

"Careful there, Bix," comes his bemused tone, "I can still make sure that you have some unfortunate accident of your own there. Fires are...very common." The line would drop leaving Bixlow angry and bitter that this was what money did to a person.

Turning his phone off, he slumps onto his bed before glancing at the small table that held an image and reaches to pick it up. Staring at it, he's drawn to the small figure of Makarov Dreyar. He'd saved Bixlow from the streets and gave him somewhere safe to stay; had encouraged his love for dance. And eventually, his glance would move to the other male in the picture; a blond only a year old and swallows thickly. Heaven only knew where Laxus had ended up after Makarov died. Bixlow tried to keep in touch with him but he was having none of it. Lightly touching the image, he whispers, "I hope that ya safe, Lax. Please be safe. And come back soon, brother. I could use ya right now."

But after three years and he wasn't at all hopeful in that regards. Curling up on his side, he holds the picture close and wishes once more that things were fair. But fair seemed only to pertain to those with money and power. None of which he did.

 _*~*~*Freed*~*~*~*_

"What do you mean, I'm going back?" he demands.

"Your instructor came to see me at my own office," comes his father's curt reply, "You will continue the lessons as planned and you will be exemplary at the conference."

Freed's fingers tighten. "I told you…"

"Do not argue with me, Freed. I've let you do what you wanted long enough. I told you that everything that you have is at stake and I meant it. I will cast you out penniless if you screw this up for me."

"What's so important about this?"

"She is the daughter of a man with whom our name would gain only more influence. You are going to impress her."

"You've arranged a marraige? Isn't that just a little old-fashioned?"

"Do not be petulant! We are from a noble lineage and it will continue! You will finish these lessons and you will court her with all the charm you should possess by now!"

Whatever Freed wants to argue back with, he wisely keeps to himself understanding that there was no winning this fight. "Yes, father," he concedes inwardly wishing the man to any number of the levels of hell just to get him away from him. "If that is all?"

"It is...but I am serious, Freed. I will not be lenient with you."

"I understand," he replies before turning and abruptly walking out of the man's study. He should have known this would happen. The man he'd met didn't seem the type to take anything except how he wanted it. Letting himself into the safety of his own room, he closes the door before leaning against it. There was a reason he preferred the typical instructors; one he would never admit and could never admit to anyone because it would certainly lose him everything. And the wild-haired, black-nailed instructor was everything that he tried to avoid admitting that he might want. Immediately, he squashes that thought because there was no use in wishful thinking and the less he considered that, the less things hurt. Instead, he walks over and pulls out a case revealing his violin deciding to lose himself in music to perhaps help ease some of his own turmoil. If nothing else, it was worth a shot.

His fingers would be nearly cramping by the time he'd let up. Setting it back into it's case and walking into the bathroom, he glances at himself in the mirror and dislikes the unhappiness he sees radiating from his own gaze. Running cold water over his fingers, he tries to tell himself that wanting for nothing was something to be grateful for.

The problem was that it felt like it was at the expense of his soul.

Freed Justine had been born to privilege and it was all he'd known; lavish outfits, maids, private tutors; all the best things that money could buy. What he hadn't had was a childhood full of laughter, getting messy with friends, or the ability to be social with anyone but who was deemed "appropriate". It was the same people who had the same social status and Freed found them extremely dull. Which is why he'd put his foot down and gone to a college for the arts for two years wanting to play the violin and the flute. Of course his father soon put his foot down and sequestered him in a business degree at a "proper" college. And now this. It was unbelievable to Freed who at 21 should be pleased that he'd gotten a degree so soon. He was clearly very intelligent and bright but it was never enough for his father who found the smallest failings to rail on him about. Like his social awkwardness.

There was just no way Freed was explaining that it was more to do with the fact that he didn't like women than him not knowing how to do things. It would not go over well. Returning to his bedroom, he sinks onto the bed sighing and bringing a hand through his hair. A knock has him glancing warily in that direction. "Who is it?"

"As if it would be anyone else," comes his sister's voice, "Can I come in?"

Resting back, he mumbles, "If you insist."

And it wouldn't be long before the door would open and she would waltz in. "Got into it with dad again did you?"

"Like it's anything new," he answers, "Was there something that you needed, Evergreen, or did you just want to point out that I'm not ever going to win an argument with him?"

"Well, it could be worse you know."

"Is that so? You do realize that he expects me to court and marry...well, whoever it is he's wanting me to woo and marry."

Evergreen looks at him in disbelief. "You don't even know who...Where have you been over the past few months?!"

"Not paying attention to anything having to do with our family," he answers rolling on his side, "Not that it matters who she is in the end. Our father's will is law."

"Or you could refuse and be sent penniless into the streets," she replies.

Freed gives her a baleful look over his shoulder. "Oh, yes that will end most favorably for me, Ever."

"Well, at some point you are going to have to figure out if you want to be miserable in this gilded cage or walk away with nothing and try your fortune that way."

"If I leave...what about you?"

She rolls her eyes at him. "I'm not the one who seems so set against all of this. I'm enjoying myself; something you should learn how to do every once in awhile."

Freed sighs softly. "I know you're right I just...it's a lot to consider."

"You have about a month to do so so I'd definitely come to a concrete decision were I you."

He knew she was right but he wouldn't tell her that. As much as he loved his sister, he knew she would preen and hold it against him. So he merely remarks, "Yes, I am aware. Was there something else?"

"No, I figured I should check on you since dad is ranting again. Did the guy really come to his office?"

"Apparently he did," Freed mutters, "He shouldn't have bothered."

"Well, that takes a hell of a lot of guts."

"Or just the want of the payoff."

"When did you get jaded enough to think that it has only to do with the bottom line?"

"Because most of the time it does," he retorts, "Why are we discussing this? I am stuck with that...guy for the next five weeks. I'm not looking forward to it."

"Still," Ever says chuckling, "Gotta give him props for demanding to speak with our father."

Freed didn't want to give Bixlow anything along the lines because it then made him think about the other and that was a dangerous set of affairs in and of itself. This was such a mess and something tells him that it was only going to get worse and not better.


	2. Chapter 2

_Disclaimer: *See Prologue*_

 _Author's Note: And the story continues delving a little bit more into the backgrounds of both Bixlow and Freed. Warnings for dark themes including child-prostitution. Things are still cloudy but will be revealed in due time. I want to thank you guys for reading. As always, comments and criticisms welcome!_

 _Part One_

 _*~*Bixlow*~*~*~*_

A restless sleep has him walking along the paths at a familiar park. The nerve of Ivan infuriated him but then again, he could not be that surprised. Coming to a bench, he slumps onto it cradling his chin in his hands. Ivan had always despised his father's way of seeing things, that much Bixlow knew. The building that was made into his studio was actually the last place Makarov Dreyar lived before the accident would claim his life. It was the place that held the best years of Bixlow's life thanks to the kindness of that old man. Of course these thoughts would lend to him recalling the night that he'd met Makarov Dreyar and his entire life had changed.

 _The rain had come down drenching everything in it's path. Without an umbrella, it wasn't long before the thin clothing would be stuck to his skin; what little there was. A flash of lightning has the boy shivering even as he stays by the corner. He had no choice but to be out here like this. If he didn't meet his quota...Well, he didn't want to think about that. He just had to get that money because not doing so wasn't acceptable._

 _The weather, however, was working against him as it tended to keep most everyone inside. Red eyes close a moment as he inwardly begs for anyone to show up that might be able to help. And a few minutes later a dark car would turn the corner start to slow as it approached. At thirteen, Bixlow had long ago stopped being embarrassed about propositioning others as it was the only way he was going to be allowed a warm bed and food. Necessity made it imperative to just push it away. So he'd wait until the window rolled down revealing an almost kindly older male. "Ya lookin' for a good time?" comes the easy question, "'Cause I am very good at that."_

 _And it would be immediate that the man's expression would change; eyes narrowing before he'd state with a quiet command, "Come out of the rain, little one."_

 _Usually, Bixlow would make demands before he'd ever be foolish enough to do that but there was something about the man that has him obeying almost promptly sliding into the vehicle and out of the rain. "What's your name, my boy?"_

" _Bixlow," he answers trying not to shiver, "Y-ya...not a cop are ya?"_

" _No, I'm not but I certainly wish I was because whatever monster has you out here like this deserves the jail time," comes the man's response as he starts driving._

" _So...what are you doin'?"_

" _I'm taking you back to my place to get you dried off and cleaned up. Boys like you should be in school."_

 _Bixlow blinks a little confusedly. "I don't...understand." He watches the male glance at him through the rearview window with a soft smile._

" _You will, my boy. I promise."_

It had been the last night he'd spent on the street. Makarov Dreyar had indeed took him home and had become responsible for him. Of course that meant introducing him to Laxus who was the man's flesh-and-blood grandson who lived there because his father could not be trusted to raise him. Bixlow found himself growing attached to the blond who slowly warmed up in return.

More satisfying had been putting the man who was responsible for his time on the streets away. The trial was hard and he'd been afraid only of losing Makarov and Laxus for all the things he was revealing. But it wasn't to be the case; he'd ended up sleeping on the couch that night tucked between them both.

Healing took time as did catching up on everything he'd missed but Makarov was patient and helped him through it. It wouldn't be long until Bixlow discovered that dance helped alleviate some of his internal condemnation and finding this out has Makarov pushing him to learn and let himself let loose.

Things were good; he had Makarov and Laxus and a place to call home. He'd finally felt like things were going the way he wanted them to. And then Ivan started coming around more; the dark haired man had a penchant for gambling and losing money and Makarov had long warned that he was going to come to ill if he continued it. It was why he had custody of Laxus after Laxus' mother died; it was also her desire to have Makarov raise him knowing just what Ivan would teach him.

Bixlow had a bad feeling about what the man was intending by coming around and nosing where he didn't belong; both him and Laxus. Of course Ivan was furious to learn that he'd been removed from Makarov's will altogether; that Laxus and Bixlow would get everything. The explosive argument between the men scared Bixlow who was sure that Ivan would do something in his rage. But he'd merely left after promising Makarov that he would be sorry for this.

Bixlow did not think it coincidence that there was an accident nearly four months later that would claim Makarov's life. Bixlow struggled to keep Laxus from falling apart at the loss but he refused and disappeared completely leaving Bixlow to struggle with what came next. Of course it gave Ivan some leeway which ended up being his ownership of the building that Makarov was having converted to a studio for Bixlow. While he hated that thought, he didn't have the means to go to court to argue it. So he paid a ridiculous rent to keep it open while still trying to find his brother.

Three years has him pretty sure that wherever Laxus was; he didn't want to be found by him. And that hurt. But he was still trying to keep the last place that he felt at home from falling into the clutches of the man he was sure was responsible for Makarov's murder. He just couldn't prove it.

Squeezing his eyes shut, he whispers, "I'm sorry...that I couldn't keep him here. I'm tryin'...I just...I don't know where to look anymore..." Tears form and he strives to wipe them away. He had a class that night and couldn't risk looking like he was some addict though he doubted that much would surprise his less than warm student.

Maybe if he got enough from the Justines, he could hire a private investigator to find him because he needed to know his brother was safe. "I'm...gonna find him and bring him home. I promise, grandfather. I will."

He'd soon rise and head back out to grab something to eat before contemplating exactly how best to go about this lesson. If the other had such a problem with someone else taking the lead than he'd have to... No, no he was going to make him get out of his comfort zone. He had to learn and he would never do it by hiding.

Seated at a diner, he glances at the familiar menu debating on what to get for himself. "Well, haven't seen you in a while," comes the familiar voice of Mira.

"'Lo, Mira," he greets, "Sorry 'bout that."

"You're not finding a different hangout now are you? I'd hate to have to drag you back here by your ear."

He chuckles at that. "Nah, just busy is all."

"Well, you should get un-busy every now and again," she chastises though her lips are curving upwards at the edges, "Word around town says you're teaching the Justine boy."

He rolls his eyes. "Damned gossipers are nosy."

"Well, can't help that he's the darling of the family other than of course his sister, Evergreen."

He shrugs. "Wealthy is wealthy."

"Uh huh, nothing else to say on the subject?"

"Nope. He's a job and one I need to keep so keep your gossips away from tabloids because I do not need idiot reporters near my studio, okay?"

"I'll see what I can do," she answers. And he was sure it was the best that could be done considering the situation.

Nodding, he murmurs, "I think I'm just gonna get the breakfast special."

"You always do."

"Well, it's delicious." All of the food there was which is why he went so much. As he waits, he considers his student once again and sighs softly. Heaven help him but it wasn't so much the money he was looking forward to though he'd never admit that to anyone. But a few thoughts never hurt anyone in the long run.

 _*~*~*Freed*~*~*~*_

The only plus that might come from a marriage, even one of convenience, was that it would get him out of the oppressive environment he was in. Being woken up at the same time every morning was exhausting. While he liked a schedule to adhere to; he'd never been particularly fond of how things were run. He drags himself into the bathroom and showers before presenting himself for breakfast with the family. His mother looked like she was going to a photoshoot; green hair done up in intricate ringlets and wearing a formal gown worthy of any ball of old. Evergreen was dressed only slightly less casually and then of course there was his father in a full business suit. Freed himself was wearing a red dress shirt and black pants though hated having to look like this at 7:30 in the morning. But his father ruled the house so he just went with it. He slips into his seat. "Freed, dear, I do not know why you choose that particular color. It's hardly Christmas-time."

His mother's voice has his fingers tightening under the table. "It is a shirt, mother," he answers simply, "I don't intend on wearing it out of the house."

"I would hope not; what would the neighbors think?"

Freed was pretty sure he could give a long list of things that their neighbors thought but it wouldn't be helpful and he didn't want to start an argument so he keeps his thoughts to himself. Instead, he focuses on the food in front of him. Meals had never been really intimate with his family; mostly a dance of words and actions where most of the words were rebukes for some slight or another or ways one could 'better' themselves. It was mostly aimed at him and to be honest, Freed was just a little exhausted by it all.

Thankfully though, his family's schedules had them leaving far before him and the room is soon quiet. A soft snort escapes him as he brings his glass to his lips. "It would be the most festive your family has been in decades," comes the quiet tone of one of the butlers.

Swallowing, Freed chuckles. "I definitely would not disagree. Always a charming thing...these meals."

"You were meant for more than this, sir."

Freed shrugs. "Depends on who you ask."

"The one who hears you play and knows that you'd rather be following any dream but this one."

Freed shrugs. "I don't have dreams; I have ambition. Dreams are for fools. And the males of the Justine house are no fools," he intones imperviously before rolling his eyes. Rising, he takes his plates regardless of how much he wasn't supposed to before slipping into the kitchen. His father's words echo in his ears; the same words he heard constantly. Setting them into the sink, he takes a slow breath. What would things have been like if...

He cuts off that train of thought immediately. There was no point in wishing things were different. He was who he was and that was the end of it. "She'll never make you happy, sir. I know that you know that and why that is as well as I do."

"What is the alternative; let him throw me out?"

"Your instruments are yours, sir. Use them to help if you must but I would not suggest continuing this whole charade; even to get out of this house. It won't be worth the harm to you or the lady. And doesn't she deserve something better than a man who will never, can never love her?"

Of all the household, he was the only one who knew and Freed knew he'd take the truth to his grave. There was a lot of truth to his words and Freed knew it. He'd never wish someone else to be stuck in a miserable position. But at the moment, he had no other choice; no where to go made it pretty imperative that he keep in his father's good graces. Besides, his parents weren't exactly in love and they were making it work.

It just wasn't an arrangement that Freed wanted out of his own life.

Leaving the kitchen, he heads back up to his room intending on playing a little bit until he was calm enough to try and think things through. He'd have to figure out how to last through another lesson with that instructor but he was sure there were worse things than that.

Probably.

 _*~*~*Bixlow*~*~*~*_

Freed's arrival comes right after another sneering call from Ivan who seemed intent on trying to ruin his mood. Fingers tightening into fists, he tells himself that taking it out on someone else was never something he was taught. "Evenin', Freed," he says quietly, "Thanks for comin' back."

"I wasn't planning on it," comes the answer he expected, "I don't...particularly care for you."

"Well, guess it's good that it's really not a requirement then. Warm up and then we'll start from where we left off."

"Am I following you again?"

"Yes. Gonna have to get used to that," he tells him firmly, "Gotta learn how to follow before ya can ever lead." He watches the others jaw tighten and waits to see what the other would finally decide. He's pleased when the shoulders slump and the younger man seems to accept the situation. The other had a stubborn streak about things.

He watches the other warm up before putting the music on and stepping close enough to touch him. Ignoring how good he felt in his arms is harder because it seems that he was actually going on faith and was a little more relaxed with him. "Better but ya still tense. Try and relax would ya? This is a dance not a torture, I promise."

"According to whom?"

Bixlow rolls his eyes. "Stop bein' a brat and do as I say." Of course that brings a petulant expression from the other that was both highly exasperating and in ways he hated, endearing all at once. "Look, this is not ya idea of a good time; I get that but ya here for a reason so let me do my job." There is a sharp exhalation but the other says no more which is a small victory. It also tells him that there was a reason the other was doing this; a need that was far greater than how he personally felt about Bixlow. And that was the sort of thing that made him curious but he tries to ignore that. Nothing good ever came from asking personal things.

He almost lasts through the song before jerking away from him and Bixlow sighs. "Ya gonna have to get used to this."

"I don't like being touched so informally!"

Bixlow finds himself snorting. "Then dancin' is definitely never gonna be ya thing; it's all about informal and personal. Look, take a break a minute and calm down. I can tell this ain't ya desired way to spend ya time. It'll be okay."

"I have to learn..."

"Ya know it," he interrupts, "I can tell that ya do. Ya just too nervous to let yourself go." Bixlow has a few thoughts about why that might be but again, keeps this to himself. No need to offend the other again as he doubted there would be another chance given.

Freed seems to get more anxious instead of less and Bixlow sighs softly. "What is ya goal in this then? Why are ya doin' this?"

"To impress someone."

The answer has him cocking his head. "Ya choice or ya parents? I only ask 'cause ya seem to want to do anythin' but impress anyone includin' ya self."

"It's none of your business."

"I know that but it's obviously distasteful to ya."

"Arranged marriages are distasteful!" comes the bitter remark before the other would abruptly state, "Ignore that it was..."

"The most honest ya've been since comin' here," Bixlow intones quietly, "Look, ya life ain't my business but it's clear ya miserable, that this thought makes ya miserable."

"There is no help for it. I do not have a choice so I just need you to teach me and nothing more."

Bixlow brings a hand through his short hair with a sigh. "That's not..."

"I do not require your commentary. Just your teaching."

Curt. Impersonal. He had put back up his facade. It takes Bixlow a few deep breaths before he feels like he can handle this without giving the other a piece of his mind that would not help and would probably just lose him this job which he could not afford.

Ivan could not be allowed to win in this.

 _*~*~*Freed*~*~*~*_

It was frustrating to him that the other read him so well and he's never been more relieved to get out of there. Heading down the stairs for the door, he cannot help but berate himself for being far too honest. What had he been thinking?! And the simple truth was that when he was in that small room with the other male there was little of his usual control. He had no idea what it was about the other that made him that way.

 _Yes you do. You know exactly what it is._ The thoughts come unbidden and he almost misses a step.

 _No, I don't._

 _Don't you? He's tall, lanky, with lovely eyes. You know exactly what it is that makes you so out of control. You want him._

Fear fills him. No, absolutely not. He could not afford any sort of attachment to the other; no matter how fleeting. He'd work too damned hard to ignore those particular wants to have them return. He could not develop a crush on the man. He could not. Would not.

 _Liar. You already do._

"I do not," he grits out as he opens the door, "I feel nothing but contempt." And that would be the end of it, had to be the end of it. He walks down the street to the corner at which the limo was waiting. Reaching, he pulls it open and slips inside. He doesn't grant himself the ability to look back towards the building. It was just a few weeks of this. He could get through it without incident. He would get through it without incident. There was nothing else to do.

The house is empty when he returns so he goes to shower and then pulls out his flute. Bringing it to his lips, he loses himself in a melody to try and calm the roiling emotions running through him. There was nothing good that would come from ever developing feelings for the eccentric dance instructor. None. And it wasn't possible anyway. So he was far better off forgetting that he felt anything of the sort.

A wrong note has him irritated with himself at his loss of focus as it wasn't this easy to set him off-kilter. A moment later, there is a knock at his door that has his attention. "Yes?"

The door opening would reveal his butler who had a strangely dismayed expression. "I think, young Master, that you need to have a look at this." In his hand is a large manila envelope. Freed carefully sets the flute aside and rises before crossing the room and extending his hand.

"What is it?"

"It was left earlier today and because there was no name I figured it was safe enough to open but..."

Freed doesn't much like the look on the older male's face as he takes the folder before opening it finding first a folded letter. Curiosity is what has him opening the letter;

 _I don't know if you truly want those lessons to continue considering the male in question. As a...worried citizen I thought it prudent to warn you before things got too far with your son._

There is no name to the script though if he had to guess, Freed would say a man had written it. "It only gets worse, Freed."

He glances at the male speaking before reaching back in and pulling out copies of reports. Blue eyes widen when he realizes what he's seeing. "These are...but..." The words could not be unseen no matter how much he was sure a juvenile record didn't matter. He swallows. "Destroy this information. Immediately."

"Yes, of course. But..."

"Keep an eye on things. If anything else shows up without a name then I want it. If it shows up with just my parents name and no return address and you can get it; I want it. None of this is to go to them."

"Yes, sir." And Freed knew he would have his discretion no matter how much he might not approve. Watching him disappear with the envelope leaves him to sit on the edge of the bed wondering who would drudge up records from that far back in an attempt to malign Bixlow. His fingers tighten into sheets as then he wonders what had happened that made what those documents entailed necessary. It wasn't his business,it wasn't but he was curious nonetheless.

 _*~*~*Bixlow*~*~*_

The place was empty when he didn't have a student though sometimes that was for the best. He sweeps the floor willing the remaining frustration to ebb and vanish. It served no useful purpose to be constantly angry with the man. He knew what his mettle was. It was just so frustrating that he was making it this hard on him. Though Bixlow was sure it was because he wanted to sell the building probably to fund more gambling or drink. And Bixlow was stubbornly holding out. He just had to pay off a little more and then it would be his once again. So of course Ivan was getting antsy. He hadn't thought that he'd manage it while trying to look for Laxus. He tried not to think of all the things that might have happened when the blond had left. It hurt too much to think that Ivan might have managed to end both of them. So he tried not to think that way even though that creeping fear liked to pop up now again.

If he found out that Ivan had anything to do with the blond's disappearance as well; he feared it would be the last straw and his emotions would snap like a worn rubber-band. But it was why he tried to push that out of his mind. There was no way he'd manage if he was going down these roads. So he just cleans up and heads for bed hoping that the next lesson might be better while debating putting back up fliers. Once Freed was done he'd have time for another student while he tried to find Laxus once more.

Sleep is less than restful so he heads to see Mira. If nothing else the food would return a semblance of strength. "You look awful," the white-blond says approaching, "You didn't manage to mess things up did you?"

"No, just didn't sleep," he answers, "Ivan's at it again."

"Ivan...Does that monster ever get tired of his pettiness?"

"Apparently not," he answers, "I've almost managed to buy that building from him. He didn't think I could, no doubt so he's trying his best to take it from under me."

"He can't do that! Makarov wanted you to have it."

"Yeah, except he's Makarov's blood relative...which means that the courts are more lenient to him."

Mira reaches out to take a hold of his hand. "You'll win this. I know you will because I've seen you fight when you believe in something."

Her faith makes him smile wryly before he murmurs, "Ya have a lotta faith there, Mira. Maybe too much."

"Not when it comes to you. You've survived hell and blossomed into a hell of a man to be proud of. Makarov would be so proud of you, Bixlow."

Bixlow looks away because even years later it was still hard to hear about him. Part of it was that Bixlow hadn't really finished mourning when Laxus had vanished and losing them both had been crippling in ways he wasn't sure he would recover from. Especially as he wasn't yet formally adopted into the family. Without Laxus there to help, he'd been forced to accept renting the building until it was payed off with Ivan as both the owner and his subsequent boss. It was a no-win situation but it afforded him some chances of getting on his feet.

However, he planned on getting the rest of the payments within a few months so that he could bid goodbye to a threat like that so that he might be able to start looking for Laxus without much in the way of distractions though it seemed wrong to call it a distraction per se.

Pushing his thoughts away for the moment, he focuses on eating to try and regain some strength to deal with Freed later on. Of course he's halfway through when his phone rings. Picking it up, the number is unfamiliar so he answers with a cautious, "Hello?"

"We need to speak because I believe you may be in a spot of trouble."

He finds himself tensing. "If ya threatenin' me..."

"You misunderstand me, sir. I work for Freed Justine."

Bixlow stills. "Ya..."

"I'm his butler, sir, but that's not important. What is important is that someone is trying to discredit you to Mr. Justine and I do not believe you want him to find out you had a record as a child."

Ivan. The man was the only one who would have known about it and would use it to hurt him. He squeezes his eyes shut. "Does he know?"

"No, Freed saw the documentation but he is having me keep a lookout for anything else. I figured you deserved a chance to know."

"Thanks," he says softly feeling his heart sink further. Well, there went anything resembling credibility. Ivan was really threatened by him at this point, it seemed.

"Just be careful, sir. Whoever this is...is bad news."

Bixlow gives a bitter smile the man couldn't see. "Oh, I know exactly the kind of monster he is as I know the identity of the man in question. I'll be careful. But thanks for bringin' it to my attention." Having the call ended as his jaw clenching.

"Bix?"

He shakes his head as a wave of misery and rage fills him at the fact that he was having to deal with this sleazy monster. Squeezing his eyes shut, he forces out, "I hate him. I fuckin' hate him."

"Hang in here, Bixlow. You can win this. You can."

But could he? Could he really with no help in his corner? In his mind, he hears the laughter of two boys and feels the tears form and spill. _Brother, where are ya when I need ya? We promised we'd always be there when the other was in need._ But it was the fear that he couldn't that was so much worse. And a low, ragged sob escapes before he buries his face into his arm. Dammit it all!


End file.
